Battle of the Bands
by americasgirlfriend
Summary: In which Roman and Peter are in rival bands. Band AU, rated NC-17.


Warnings: blood, some mild bloodkink, barebacking

* * *

"What kind of music do you kids play anyway?"

Peter wasn't sure if Roman's voice was laced with distain or genuine interest – it was always hard to tell because of his pretentious and quasi-foreign speech patterns. But he looked up from his guitar case and answered nonetheless.

"Some have described us as 'cryptic, underground American rock,'" he smirked. "Think Velvet Underground meets something freakier, like the Insane Clown Posse."

Roman smiled hollowly, puffing smoke into the already dank air of the bar. They only ever knew each other this way – their bands were always running into each other between sets at the same bars and house parties in town.

Peter snapped his case shut and straightened up to face Roman, who was perched on a barstool, a little more evenly. "What about you guys? What does The Order play?"

As if he didn't already know. Hemlock Grove wasn't a big town – any party that Peter's band, Wolf Pack, wasn't playing, Roman's was. He'd heard them a thousand times, but he wanted to hear what Roman had to say about it.

"It's kind of experimental, you know," Roman said, looking hard into Peter's eyes. He blew out some smoke around the cigarette in his mouth. "You could call it synth pop."

"I wouldn't," Peter said.

"Me neither," Roman replied. For a moment the boys looked at each other, smirking, as if they were friends. But then the rest of The Order arrived and started loading their equipment from the van, and Roman turned heel to supervise them without so much as a parting nod to Peter.

Peter turned back to his stuff, concealing his chuckle with the hair that fell around his face as he bent to pick up his guitar case.

* * *

Hemlock Grove did have one other band, actually. And the one thing that all the members of The Order and Wolf Pack could agree on was that it totally sucked. Like, objectively, Railway Construction sucked ass. Peter could stand to admit that The Order was pretty good, in the pretentious, rich kids listening to weird experimental shit while doing the weird drugs they bought because they had too much money kind of way. But Railway Construction's music made him want to rip his own face off with his hands.

Every third Friday of the month, a local bar had a "band night," which was basically just the only three bands in town playing a set each, in rotating order. Tonight was Railway Construction's night to start, and the members of The Order and Wolf Pack hadn't even shown up yet, in an effort to experience as little of Railway Construction as possible. Usually, Peter would do the same, but tonight his mom was out and he didn't feel like sitting alone in the dark listening to the wind against the sides of his shitty trailer home. Besides, he had had a weird dream last night that had remained as a weird feeling all day, and it was telling him to get to the bar early.

The weird feeling transformed into a weird realization as soon as Railway Construction started their first song and the front entrance of the mostly-empty bar opened to show Roman Godfrey, alone, entering the room. Peter tried not to watch as he sauntered across the dark room to sit at the bar and ordered a whiskey, straight. But then Roman turned around and looked directly at the table where Peter was sitting, and made some intense eye contact that was really typical of him and for some reason made Peter's heart seem to drop to his ankles. He shrugged it off and walked over to the bar.

"Come to listen to your favorite band play?" he asked, sitting down on the stool next to Roman's.

"Yeah, exactly," Roman said, still looking intently into Peter's face. "Are you getting pumped up for your set?" The sarcasm in his voice seemed strangely friendly rather than biting, and Peter half-smiled.

"Definitely," he said, looking back at the stage for a second before wincing and turning back to Roman. Meanwhile, Roman must have gestured to the bartender because he was putting two whiskeys down in front of the two high schoolers.

"Cheers," Roman said, raising his glass towards Peter.

"Cheers," replied Peter, and both boys tossed back their respective drinks.

"So," Peter said, after a beat, "are you excited to hear us play?" Wolf Pack was next up, and the boys in The Order didn't usually show up until they were almost done.

"Not really," Roman replied, but it sounded like a lie. Peter smiled and Roman returned his smile, seemingly unconsciously, and despite his efforts to be cool and distant.

"Yeah, we're pretty good, huh?" Peter asked, smirking wider now.

"Not at all," Roman returned, looking up at Peter through his lashes, making Peter's breath catch in his throat for a split second. He swallowed, hard, as Roman continued. "Hate to break it to you, man, but you guys are kind of lame." He paired these words with a mock-sympathetic hand on Peter's shoulder, that lingered as Peter looked questioningly into Roman's eyes, whose gaze was less steady than Peter had ever seen it, but just as intense as ever.

The music stopped suddenly, a break between songs, and Roman pulled his hand back like he had been burned.

"I think you guys are up soon, though," he said. "Best of luck."

"Thanks, we'll need it," Peter tried to say sarcastically but the words sounded haunted by something left unnamed.

Roman stood up and left without a single word. But when he got to the door and opened it, he looked back over his shoulder and caught Peter's eyes one last time. He looked searchingly, pursed his lips, and hurried out into the street.

Peter looked into his empty whiskey glass and furrowed his brow. He didn't know if he was pumped up for his set, but his heart was thudding hard in his chest and he didn't want to ask himself why.

* * *

Peter crushed the butt of his half-smoked cigarette into an ashtray, his eyes never leaving the stage. The Order was playing their last song of the night, an electronic, synth-infused mess of guitar riffs and vocals that would be haunting if they weren't coming from the hipster-mohawked, Doc-Marten-wearing singer, Rylan. But Peter paid no attention to the crooning kid. His eyes were fixed on the carelessly slouched, guitar-playing form of Roman Godfrey, the Order's real front man. His figure stood tall and dark against the bright, cheap stage lights, and his hair was just starting to fall out of place as he played.

The other members of Wolf Pack clapped Peter on the shoulder and murmured that they were headed out, but Peter paid no attention. His heart was beating fast – in time with the electric beat that the Order was laying down – and he still hadn't come down from the adrenaline rush of being onstage. In fact, it seemed to have gotten stronger ever since the last song of the Pack's set, when the boys of the Order showed up to get their gear ready, and Roman had looked up at the stage and locked eyes with Peter.

Peter was embarrassed to recognize his favorite part of the song – the loud, obnoxious guitar riff that came right before the end. A spotlight swung over toward Roman, making his imposing silhouette stand out even starker. Right before the riff, Roman adjusted his guitar strap, tossed his hair out of his eyes, and glanced over his shoulder to look directly at Peter. Peter felt his heart stutter for a second and then all he could feel was the vibration of Roman's insane solo as it screeched through the mostly empty bar. Peter looked down at his own guitar-callused hands until the song was done, then pulled out his phone as the band made their way off the stage. The digital clock read 12:47 am.

He didn't exactly know what he was doing by hanging around the bar but something about how fast Peter's blood was racing through his veins made him reluctant to leave. So he turned toward the bartender, who was wiping down the bar one final time, to order a beer.

"Yeah, sure thing, Peter," the bartender responded, popping the cap off a cold bottle and passing it to him.

Peter looked up. "You… you know me?"

"Sure," the bartender said, giving Peter a smile that looked friendly despite the missing teeth. "All you boys are here every weekend, aren't you? Besides, I was friends with your Uncle Nikolai."

Peter nodded, taking a swig of the cheap beer.

"Hey, can you do me a favor though, tonight?" the bartender lowly. Peter stiffened, hoping it wouldn't be something weird. "I have some, uh, errands to run," the bartender started.

At one in the morning? Peter thought. That's not sketchy at all… no wonder Nikolai was friends with this guy.

"So, it would be a big favor if you'd close up the bar for me tonight," the bartender finished, putting a key ring down on the bar. "All you gotta do is turn off the lights and lock the doors. I'd appreciate it – Nikolai would be proud."

This guy's laying it on thick, Peter smirked to himself. "Sure, man."

"Thanks, Pete."

The bartender slipped out of sight and Peter turned around to see The Order filing out of the bar, shouldering their equipment. He was taking another sip of his beer when the door swung closed and, in the same moment, Roman stepped out of the shadowy space near the big speakers by the stage.

Peter nearly choked on his beer.

"Uh, hey, what's up?" he said, trying not to sound strangled.

"What'd you think of the set?" Roman asked in that way of his that made everything he said sound so deliberate and demanding – like he was spitting out a command, but somehow a bit needy as well.

"It was alright," Peter lied. He forced himself to make eye contact as Roman stepped closer, looking intently into his face like it held the answers to all the universe's questions.

"Yeah, right," Roman spat disdainfully, and not a little smugly. "We fucking killed it."

"If you say so," Peter said, shrugging.

"Fuck off," Roman muttered darkly, still staring into Peter's eyes. "I saw you during my solo riff, you fucking jizzed in your pants didn't you?"

Peter laughed hollowly. "Yeah, you wish."

Roman stepped even closer, forcing Peter to look up to maintain eye contact. Roman's lips were mere inches from his face and he tried like hell not to look at them.

"Maybe I do," Roman whispered.

"Maybe you – what?"

Roman slipped his hand between their bodies and wrapped it around Peter's beer bottle, taking it form his hand and reaching around him to set it on the bar. He placed his hands on the bar as well, trapping Peter, whose heart was jackrabbitting around in his chest, and leaning into his space.

"Maybe I do want to make you blow your fucking load, Wolf boy," Roman said so quietly he was almost mouthing the words, but Peter heard them as loudly as if they had been blasted into his ears by the big speaker still standing by the stage steps.

Rather than tear his eyes away from Roman's lips, Peter let them fall shut as Roman leaned down to crush his mouth to Peter's. Roman kissing like Peter was the last source of water on earth, like he was the fountain of youth and Roman was Dorian Gray, his mouth desperate and needy almost to the point of angriness. Peter kissed back with as much fight as he could muster, digging his hands into Roman's thick hair that was still vaguely sweaty from the hot stage lights, pulling him even closer and breathing into his mouth like he was a fucking oxygen mask.

Peter broke the kiss by grabbing Roman's hair and yanking his head back, exposing his gorgeous white neck and biting at it, more than a little animalistic. Roman made a few breathy noises as Peter sucked at the bites he had made, and then regained his composure enough to choke out a few words.

"All I could think about – you fucking me – the speaker."

Peter paused, his mouth still on Roman's neck. "What?" he said into the hot skin.

"All I could think about tonight was you fucking me over the speaker," Roman growled, sounding irritated.

"That – we can do that," Peter said, sounding very strangled.

The next thing he knew, Roman was sitting back against the speaker by the stage and yanking Peter's t-shirt over his head from where he stood in front of him on the lowest stage step. Roman leaned forward and pulled him into a deep kiss that was so different from the first one, so surprisingly sensual, that Peter didn't even notice Roman's hands deftly unbuttoning his own shirt until he was discarding it to the ground.

Roman rubbed one hand down Peter's bare chest, into the hair leading downward, while gripping his other hand around the bulge in Peter's jeans that was growing increasingly painful in a way that did not get any better with Roman's large hand gripping firmly around it and Roman's mouth dragging down his neck.

Thankfully, Roman's other hand roamed lower and he was deftly undoing Peter's pants while sucking, hard, at his neck, teeth digging in sharply. Finally, Peter's pants and boxers were around his ankles and the with the pain largely relieved managed to fumblingly unbutton Roman's skinny jeans, shoving the jeans and his black boxer-briefs down with as much force he could muster as he felt Roman's teeth break skin. He wrapped a hand around both his cock and Roman's, stroking roughly as Roman's lips pressed softly over the bite, his tongue licking gently at the blood.

"Turn around," Peter rasped, his cock painfully hard against Roman's. Pressing one last kiss to the bite, Roman obeyed, smirking over his shoulder and saying, "You better enjoy being able to tell me what to do, it won't happen often."

"Shut up," Peter said, and to his surprise, Roman did. Peter trailed a hand down Roman's muscled back and pushed him forward so that he bent over the speaker, pressing his chest into the top of it and leaving his ass proffered to Peter.

"Shit," Peter murmured as he put his hands on Roman's ass.

"What?" Roman snapped impatiently.

"I don't have any lube," Peter said, feeling helpless. His dick was still painfully hard and beading with precome.

"My pocket," Roman growled.

After a moment's scrambling, Peter stepped back onto the step and slicked up with the lube as quickly as he could. As he pressed a finger into Roman, he chuckled. "I can't believe you brought this onstage with you."

Roman sounded ready with a bitchy response but it died in his throat as Peter pressed another finger in and crooked them. He knew he hit the spot when Roman cursed, "fuck."

"You ready?" Peter asked, his other hand holding Roman's hip steady.

"Just fucking fuck me," Roman growled.

In lieu of responding, Peter lined his cock up with Roman's hole and slid it in, closing his eyes at the tightness.

"Fuck. Me." Roman growled again, and Peter slid his lube-covered hand around to grip Roman's huge cock.

"Okay, Princess," he muttered before thrusting hard into Roman, picking up a fast, desperate rhythm. He stroked Roman's cock with the same reckless pace with which he slammed into him. Roman let out little moans that only served to make Peter thrust even faster and deeper, drawing out louder moans from Roman, whose precome was messy with the lube on Peter's hand as he pumped his cock.

Peter closed his eyes, biting his lip at the sensation of being inside Roman Godfrey, who was letting out absolutely fucking obscene little breathy moans. He could feel his orgasm building hot and fast in the bottom of his stomach, like a tight hot pulsing ball of pleasure that spread rapidly to consume every inch of his body. He pumped his hand even faster and, with a final, deep thrust, felt Roman come with a shudder, flexing tightly around him and making him come harder than he could remember ever coming in his life.

Hazy with the force of his orgasm, Peter draped himself over Roman's limp form, letting his dick slide lazily out of Roman as he did so. They stayed like that for a second, feeling one another's heavy breathing, bodies slick with sweat against each other.

After a moment, Roman turned around under Peter, his eyes on Peter's neck, where a drip of blood was crawling down his neck. Roman licked it clean, pausing with his nose against Peter's neck, in what was almost an affectionate nuzzle. Peter let himself smooth a hand over the damp hair on the back of Roman's neck.

"That was some after-party," Peter murmured, smiling half to himself.

"More like a battle of the bands," Roman replied, pressing his lips back to the purpling bite on Peter's neck.

"Who won, then?" Peter asked, loftily, letting his hands play in Roman's hair.

Roman pulled up to look at him, his face right in front of Peter's.

"Who the fuck cares?" he responded, and Peter sure as hell didn't, because now Roman was kissing him again, and his heart was picking up the beat that Roman's was drumming out.


End file.
